


House Bolton Halloween Collection

by losgar (ladyoflosgar)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Blood and Gore, Domestic Violence, Gen, Halloween, House Bolton, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflosgar/pseuds/losgar
Summary: Halloween-themed spooky stories centered on House Bolton. There will be fewer than 31.#1 - The Picture of Dorian Gray (Roose POV)





	House Bolton Halloween Collection

**Author's Note:**

> Roose sits for a portrait to extend his life and secure House Bolton's future. Warning for gore, murder, and political assassinations. Vaguely set in Victorian London.

“Are you sure of this, doctor?”

“I am sure, my lord.”

Lord Roose Bolton stared Dr. Qyburn in the face. He could not believe it. The shock was enough to make the muscles in his face twitch. Had he a mirror, he would have seen fear on his features, but alas Dr. Qyburn’s pupils were too small and far to reflect anything in detail.

“The leeches will not work?”

“The leeches will not work. This sickness of the blood will kill you in six moons if it is left to its natural course.” Dr. Qyburn pursed his lips. “But if you are willing to take… unconventional means against this affliction, we could extend your life… indefinitely.”

Indefinitely long life he did not need, but more than six moons he did. There was too much left to do. Domeric needed a good marriage, Ramsay’s degenerate behavior needed to be corrected by any means necessary, there was that deal with Lord Tywin about lessening Stark and his party’s influence on the Queen… he had seen the world change before his eyes since he was a boy. Good God, they had steam engines and trains and coal powered makeries now! This age would make or break House Bolton’s fortune, it could see its reputation soar or fade. No. He could not die in six moons. He would see his grandchildren playing at his feet, he would see Ramsay become a man fit for public life, fit for the Bolton name. He could not die in _six moons_!

He could deal with unconventional means.

He was surprised when Dr. Qyburn pulled an ancient, leather-bound book from his attaché case. The pages were yellowed and flaking apart and – _was the binding made of hair? Was that leather human skin? _Qyburn opened it and started ruffling through the pages, obviously looking for something specific. The book was from the fifteenth century or earlier – each new section bore illuminated letters. The ink was a queer rust color. It smelled. Who knew that Qyburn – a _man of science, _he had thought – would dabble in the occult.

“Here it is.” Qyburn’s hands smoothed over the open book. It described a portrait painted with blood mixed into the pigment. A portrait that would bear his heart and soul. That was it? Really? The way Roose saw it, he was already pouring out his heart and soul for House Bolton – so his father had taught him, and his father before, all the way back to their founder, Royce the Red.

“This will do.” So he sat for the portrait. It was a good thing that Qyburn had not canceled the last order of leeches, for they needed plenty of blood. First the canvas – and Roose ordered a great canvas, if he was to have a portrait done, it would hang in the parlor above the fire for all to see – would need to be coated in a layer of blood. Fine. Then they would need to mix blood into every stroke of paint. That was fine too. Qyburn saw to it all – the leeching, the mixing, the painting – and for that he was glad. He didn’t need some painter asking questions. A true Renaissance man, that Qyburn was. A renowned physician. A man of arcane knowledge. A true artist.

So he sat for the portrait. Within a matter of weeks Qyburn had finished. The morning it was to be unveiled, he looked himself in the mirror. His face looked healthier, all the worry-wrinkles about his brow and mouth gone. He had not expected that. When he had woken up that morning, he had felt better than he had in a decade. Qyburn had worked a miracle.

“It’s a beautiful painting, Father,” Domeric said quietly as their little family stood admiring the painting in the parlor of the old Bolton townhouse. In the portrait, Roose was posing in his finest morning dress, a curtain of Bolton pink in the background, a table with a hunting knife and a pitcher of hippocras at the bottom near his hand. “My compliments to Qyburn. And the framer.”

“Aye, Father, it’s fine work. If you weren’t right here, I’d think you up there!” Ramsay said, his head swinging back and forth between the painting and himself. Roose gave a small smile. It was rare that his boys agreed on anything.

It was a fine day.

***

It had been a long session at parliament. It had been a long six moons. There was a war on, famine in the North… so many issues to deal with.

Roose stepped out of his stagecoach after Walton opened the door. As he walked up the steps and made to enter his home, he could hear the dogs barking. _What was Ramsay up to now?_

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! YOU’RE THE BASTARD, NOT ME! DIE, DIE, DIE!”

Ramsay was pinning his half-brother to the floor in the parlor, his fleshy hands around Domeric’s throat. Domeric’s eyes were wild and his face was red, and then purple, and then blue. His legs stopped flailing.

The heart in Roose’s throat stopped beating. His blood ran cold and yet it still boiled in his veins.

He shut the door to the parlor with a loud slam. Ramsay looked up at his face and then down to his brother. His fat, blotchy face grew pale.

“Father - ”

“Do not speak, Ramsay. This mistake cannot be undone. You have killed your brother. He cannot be brought back. But I suppose that is what you wanted, deep in that twisted heart of yours.” Roose took a breath. “I will not call the police. We will send for Qyburn. We will have this put away, like I have put away the rest of your mistakes. We will stick to whatever story Qyburn makes up for us. I will retain my position. You will take your brother’s place in everything. You are not ready now, but you must be. You have a year to make yourself suitable. Stop your horrid games, stop your profligate behavior. Be an heir worthy of the name of Bolton. Now get out of my sight.”

There were no words for this. Domeric! The future of House Bolton had been so bright with him as heir. Eton first, and then Oxford, like the best of them. An officer in the royal army, rising fast in the civil service… Many friends, genial… the boy could have been Prime Minister one day. What was he going to say to Barbrey and the Ryswells? He’d have to start planning a wake, a funeral… This scandal could not get out. This scandal would ruin them. He’d lose his position as Lord Speaker, they’d put Ramsay to death, no man would give him a daughter to make new sons… House Bolton would die in infamy. Damn Ramsay! _Damn him! _Roose rued the day he raped the Bastard’s mother.

He sent Walton to find Qyburn. Qyburn was there in an hour.

“How did he die, Qyburn?” Roose’s voice was soft as he brushed his son’s dark hair away from his face, paler now than it had been in life, and closed his eyes. Walton and Ben Bones put Roose’s boy into a bag and carried him outside into the stagecoach set to ride to the Silent Sisters.

“A sickness of the bowels. A bad belly. I shall draw the papers up, my lord.”

“Thank you, Qyburn.” He had Walton send word to his goodfamily. _God above, what will I say to them?_ He needed to sleep on this.

The next morning after taking his tea and breaking his fast, he walked into the parlor. It was a good thing there was no blood… He couldn’t well lay out for a new Turkish rug on rushed delivery when he had a funeral to plan. His eyes swept over the spot where one boy killed the other, up over the fireplace to his portrait. Roose started.

Domeric was standing behind his right shoulder, scowling down at him. His own likeness was scowling too, lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth, out of which blood was trickling.

Walton had seen to purchasing a casket and contacting the same funerary outfit that had managed Bethany’s death, and his first wife’s, and his father’s. He’d never thought the Bolton account would be active again so soon. The outfit’s workers diligently arranged the parlor for the wake.

The first visitors to arrive were the Ryswells and the Widow Dustin. Lady Barbrey always wore black for Lord Willam, but on this day she had a floor-length veil of torn black lace. And a travel trunk.

“I shall not leave his side until he is under the dirt,” she said, and her voice was hoarse from fresh-shed tears. Her brothers murmured their condolences. They would not fight among themselves, not today. Lord Rodrik was silent, and only knelt in front of Domeric’s casket next to his daughter.

“I see the portrait does not feature the Bastard,” Roger said bitterly. _Does he know?_ “Good. And good that he isn’t here, either.” Roger frowned. “But why did you have the painter show you both scowling, Roose? Domeric hardly scowled.”

“It looks more dignified that way,” Roose said.

Roger sighed. “So you say. Beautiful portrait of you both.”

Next to arrive were Lord Redfort and his family. “How awful,” Redfort said. How awful, indeed.

‘Twas a good thing he’d had so few visitors in the six months prior. So many people stuffing into their townhouse. So many people looking at the portrait. Lord Lannister commented on it after saying his condolences. So did Lord Frey. Even Prime Minister Stark did while his daughter sobbed on Mya Stone’s shoulder, comforted by Myranda Royce. On and on the wake went. His parlor was full all week.

The procession from the townhouse to the church and then cemetery was long. There were many tears when Roose’s boy was put into the ground.

***

“The girl is upstairs?”

“Upstairs, my lord.” Thank goodness for Walton. “Unconscious now, but likely to remember.”

“See to it that she doesn’t.” Ramsay had truly done it now. Women of the night were one thing, but Sansa Stark’s best friend? Untitled the Pooles were, but gently born all the same… All of London would hear of this. All of Europe… She would have to disappear.

Walton bound her, stuffed her into a bag, and threw her into the Thames.

This could not happen again. Ramsay was a mad dog. He needed to be put down. A year Roose had given him, and a year Ramsay had wasted. The boy simply could not control himself when it came to his games. House Bolton could not be left to him.

“Ramsay and I will be going hunting at the lodge come Saturday, Walton. Would you be so kind as to invite Qyburn?”

“At once, my lord.”

Ramsay did not come back from that hunting trip, not truly. An infected dog bite took him, said Qyburn. Roose had another funeral to plan.

The only attendees were Ramsay’s little clique, the “Bastard’s Boys”. Roose had always hidden Ramsay from society. It had been better for all that way.

Roose didn’t sleep that night. A year ago he had an heir and a spare. Now he was pushing fifty and had no children. He’d have to marry for a third time. But who?

After dressing and seeing to his grooming he walked downstairs and took his tea and breakfast. Then he stepped into the parlor.

The portrait was different again. Instead of just Roose and Domeric, Ramsay was now in the picture in his hunting garb, behind Roose’s left shoulder, wearing a terrible grin-grimace. The knife was no longer on the table, but in Roose’s hand. What’s more, it was bloody, and Roose’s trousers were obviously soggy, dripping, and water-stained. Blood was now trickling out of his nose and mouth.

It had to be moved upstairs. Too many people had seen it with only Roose and Domeric. To claim that Ramsay had been added after the fact would insult the Ryswells, and that could not be done. He, Lord Tywin, and Lord Walder needed Lord Rodrik if their party was to earn the Queen’s ear...

***

Later that month Lord Walder invited him and Lord Tywin to the Frey manse with an excellent view of the river and the bridge.

“So,” Lord Walder said, the teacup in his hand shaking precariously. “Terrible year for all, was it not?” Roose could only nod in assent. This had been the worst year of his life. Even worse than the year that Beth and their last baby had died of the scarlet fever which had nearly taken Domeric too, and Ramsay’s mother had shown up again to beg for coin…

“Not for you,” Lord Tywin said. Tywin had just lost a grandson and a son-in-law in quick succession, and his elder son had been crippled while off serving in India. “Which wedding are we invited to next month? Your eighth?”

“My ninth,” Walder said, “Joyeuse Erenford. French mother. Should be good. _Heh_.” Walder licked his lips salaciously.

“Your ninth wedding. And how many grandchildren did you welcome this year? Eight?”

“Six, _heh_. Two were great-grandchildren.” Frey took a sip of his tea and miraculously did not spill. “But I was speaking about the famine in the North and the war. With those wild Irish crowning a king again the raids will just get worse. Stark and his party will not deal with these in the way they need to be dealt with.”

“Lord Stannis is acting Lord Baratheon now until Tommen comes of age. Stannis we might be able to work with.”

“With the way your daughter treated Robert? Unlikely, _heh_. Stannis hates you. Lord Renly would be easier to control.”

“Then we must extend our plans for Stark to Stannis too. What say you, Roose? Can Qyburn arrange it?”

“Agreed on Stannis. And Qyburn can do anything.” Roose had finished chewing the bite of his sandwich. “But Stark’s eldest son must be included as well. And I must needs find a wife. With Domeric gone I cannot control the claims the Starks have on my titles should I die.” Stark had two girls. Snatching either of them up for Domeric would have prevented the Dreadfort succession from spiraling out of control.

“My Walda needs a husband, _heh.”_

“Which Walda?”

“Merrett’s Walda. A sweet girl.” Merrett’s Walda was barely seventeen. And she was fat.

“Thank you, Lord Walder, I am sure she is lovely, but do you not think she will be unhappy with the match? I am older than Merrett.” He turned to Tywin. “Your daughter can still bear children, and she is a widow. She has proven fertile. I am closer to her age.”

Tywin’s green gaze was hard, but the man sighed in disappointment. “On paper it would be a fine match for Cersei. However,” he took a sip of his tea, “she has become an uncontrollable lush with a sharp tongue and a penchant for petty cruelty. You would be the unhappy one, Roose. She would run the Dreadfort into the ground. I would not foist her on you, my friend.”

“My Walda’s dowry is her weight in sterling silver, _heh_.” Walda weighed fifteen stone. Roose could use the money. The Dreadfort was old and needed more servants for its upkeep.

“Then I believe a conversation with Sir Merrett is in order. Tell me, Walder, is he in residence today?”

“No, _heh, _Merrett and his family are across the channel on holiday. They will all be back for the wedding, _heh_.”

Walder made Joyeuse his ninth Lady Frey at St. James, Westminster at eleven o’clock in the morning. All the guests were invited to the Frey manse overlooking the river for afternoon tea in the garden and a ball at seven o’clock in the evening.

It was not raining out. Lord Stark and his son were riding in an open-topped carriage to the Frey manse at six-thirty. At six thirty-two the assassin fired two shots from an apartment over a famous bakery, ran downstairs and disappeared out the back alley into the London fog. Bits of skull and brain could be picked off of the cobblestones for weeks afterward.

Roose had received Merrett’s blessing and was chatting pleasantly with a blushing, giggly Walda when the crier with the news appeared.

A gasp rolled throughout Walder’s ballroom like a wave. Old Lord Arryn started having a shaking fit and collapsed into Lady Lysa’s lap. She screamed. _Another one, we didn’t even plan for that._

“How terrible,” Walder yelled over the commotion. “Don’t let this spoil our party, _heh. _We can mourn tomorrow! Everyone, drink! A toast! To Lord Stark and his life!”

“To Lord Stark and his life!”

“To Young Robb!”

“To Young Robb!”

Lord Tywin was talking to Stannis Baratheon, presumably about young Tommen’s education. Tywin handed Stannis a crystal goblet filled with lemon water and brought his own wine to his lips. Both drank.

“Musicians! Put on _Wolf in the Night!”_ _Wolf in the Night _was a medieval ballad about a Stark warrior who won many battles before dying tragically young.

Then the dancing began. Lord Walder couldn’t participate in his dotage. Roose led Walda into the floor. She had stars in her eyes as they waltzed about the room. _Poor girl_, thought Roose. _An old man like me must be the best she can do. We’ve just met and she’s half in love already. I ought to treat her well._

When the festivities were over, Roose tucked into bed. It had been a successful day. He looked up at the portrait in his room. _You’ll have a brother soon, boys. _

Roose woke the next morning well-rested and fit as a fiddle. He rose to begin the day, and then started. The portrait was different again. On the table on his right side now stood a crystal goblet filled with lemon water and a smoking revolver.

_Good God, _he thought. He had Walton move the portrait into the attic.

Two weeks later, the morning daily reported that Stannis Baratheon was dead.

***

Later that year he married Walda at St. James Westminster at eleven o’clock in the morning. The Frey manse was large and better suited to entertaining than the Bolton townhouse so Lord Walder played host to afternoon tea and the ball that evening. The wedding was sweet and the reception was crowded, as to be expected from one of Lord Walder’s parties. Lord Walder had thrown so many weddings in his life that his oldest staff members were experts at wedding planning.

The Ryswells did not attend despite their invitation. That disappointed him. He rather liked his good-family of more than twenty years. Perhaps it was too soon for them. Perhaps they’d expected they’d be attending Domeric’s wedding instead this year. Lord Rodrik still worked with him in Parliament but the relationship wasn’t the same. It was all formality now.

Walda adjusted to life at the Bolton townhouse easily, but the years were hard on both of them. One miscarriage after another, stillbirth after stillbirth. Once she bore a living boy – Rogar, they named him – but he was dead before the turn of the moon. He went from red and screaming to blue and breathless so quickly. Walda herself went from jolly and giggly and a squealer in the night to curt and perfunctory and resigned to his attentions. It was Bethany all over again, but Bethany had a son that lived, and never lost her figure, only her smiles. With each failed pregnancy her breasts sagged a little lower, her belly gained more rolls and lines, her neck another chin. Walda had enough chins for all of the Freys combined. She resented the fact that Roose’s face never seemed to age in over a decade of marriage.

Walda also hated all of the reminders of Domeric in the house. They grated on her, reminded her of what she was failing to do. First she had all of his school awards stuffed into his room. Then his horseracing trophies and his polo uniform. Then his officer’s blues.

The last straw was when she approached him about refitting his bedchamber to have her brother Walder come stay permanently, along with converting the music room and the library into a large dining room with large chairs to fit Walda’s large family.

“We don’t have the coin, Walda,” he snapped. He was always snapping now. Despite his faction’s efforts the deaths of Stannis, Stark, and his son all those years ago only served to push their rival party further into favor with the Queen. It was impossible to get anything done, and he often came home tired and scowling. “We don’t need a dining room that large. Think of how much all that custom furniture would cost. We can visit your family at their home.”

“You _never _changed anything about this house for me,” she whined. “Bethany and Domeric got a music room. Bethany and Domeric got new stables at the Dreadfort. Domeric got a custom bookshelf! What do I get? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! And I saw that portrait you have in the attic. It has your dead Bastard in it, and you never once made to add me! I want it gone!” She moved to shove him into the banister on the staircase but Roose quickly stepped out of her way. Then she made to slap him in the face, but Roose caught her hand before she could.

“Do not strike me, woman,” he said softly. Walda's face was contorted in fear. She stepped back away from him and lost her balance. She tumbled down the stairs and hit the ground floor with a hearty crack. Her neck was splayed at an odd angle and a red pool was slowly growing under her blonde head.

Walton stepped forward. “Shall I fetch Qyburn, my lord?”

Roose nodded and Walton left. He couldn’t believe it. His young wife was dead. His life was in shambles. House Bolton would die with him. It all started going downhill when he had that portrait done. He hadn’t looked at it since before he and Walda were married.

He needed to destroy it. He could do one last thing for Walda, at least. Who needed indefinitely long life when one’s life was so miserable? He raced up to the attic.

There in the portrait was Walda. She was sitting in front of him, next to the table, his left hand on her shoulder, his right holding the bloody knife at her throat. Roose’s own face was heavily lined. It looked gaunt, as fit a man near sixty years old. His hands were weathered and papery in the painting.

Roose took out the knife in his pocket and began to hack.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his chest, in his gut, in his sides. He dropped the knife and fell onto his hands and knees. Breath came shallowly to his lungs. His head was spinning.

“My lord! Qyburn is here!”

“In the attic, Walton!” It took all of Roose’s efforts to scream. He couldn’t even support himself with his hands and knees anymore, he was lying prone on the dusty floorboards. Somewhere there was a clatter of footsteps. He turned his head. Those were Qyburn’s shoes…

Thank God for Qyburn. Qyburn would save him. Qyburn could make the pain stop…

“Help me, Qyburn,” Roose whispered. Qyburn looked down at him, smiling terribly.

“No.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write. Apologies that Roose, Tywin, and Walder were OOC, and that Walda channeled Lysa. 
> 
> I've always thought that Roose's personal life was rather horrible? Kind of like Jon Arryn's, except Sweetrobin never died on Jon Arryn's watch (though Elbert and Denys did), and Jon never had a bastard that we know of. Walda seemed to like Roose unlike Lysa, so perhaps it's a wash as to who came out ahead.
> 
> Next up: The Headless Horseman (Harry Hardyng POV)


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